


Amor Meus Amplior Quam Verba Est

by tiffywiffyfluffykitty



Series: In Perpetuum Et Unum Diem [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gryffindor John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marauders' Era, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Potterlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Romantic Friendship, Teenlock, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiffywiffyfluffykitty/pseuds/tiffywiffyfluffykitty
Summary: In which John and Sherlock meet in Hogwarts of 1973 and from them comes the story of a lifetime.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary in working progress. 
> 
> Hey guys! This is my first time on AO3 and I'm really excited to share my work with you! Please take care of me!
> 
> Alright so this story is going to span about 7-8 chapters and is going to take a while because each chapter is a different year. I'm still working out some things because it's still a little tricky to put some things in and I'm terrible at dialogue so... yeah. I'll try to work on this fic as much as possible though so please bear with me!
> 
> I took some liberties with facts and stuff on this story because I couldn't find the information I needed. I hope that doesn't bother you all too much.
> 
> Enjoy and feedback is very much appreciated!

The crimson-and-black Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade Station on the night of September 1st amidst icy, sheeting rain.

“I don’t envy the first years,” Greg Lestrade said grimly as he glared at the moving rivulets of water running down the glass window. “Imagine having to cross the lake in this weather.”

“I dunno, could be fun,” John Watson said offhandedly. “Maybe they’ll see the Giant Squid.”

Greg snorted. “You Gryffindors. Always risking your bloody necks looking for some harebrained adventure. You’re turning out to be as bad as Potter and his friends, John.”

“Some fun can’t hurt, Greg.”

“You call practically swimming through the Black Lake _fun_?”

John grinned. “C’mon, if we hurry we’ll be able to get into a Slytherin-free carriage.”

“I wouldn’t put my money on that,” Greg muttered. But he too stood and hurried out the door.

Students were already crowding the station platform, some sprinting for the nearby horseless carriages while others milled around in panicked confusion, all desperately trying to stay dry.

Greg suddenly tapped John’s shoulder. “I’m gonna round up the first years and try to find Hagrid!” he yelled over the wind and rain. “You go on ahead!”

“Alright!” John shouted back. “See you at the Feast!” He turned and began to run for the carriages, but someone was blocking his way and he accidentally rammed into the small figure, knocking them both to the ground. “Sorry, so sorry! Didn’t see you!” John scrambled up, ignoring his aching knees and the scraped heels of his palms, and held out a hand for the person still sprawled on the ground.

Icy pale eyes, colder than the autumn rain, glared up at him. The boy got to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand, and swept away without a backwards glance. John turned, staring after him, but the boy was lost amongst the crush of bodies rushing towards the opposite direction.

Someone else bumped into him, forcing him to take a step back. Wide green eyes framed by damp auburn locks looked up. “John!” Lily Evans shouted. “What in the blazes are you doing standing around in the rain?”

“Nice to see you too, Lily,” he yelled back, the boy already half-forgotten. “Had a nice summer?”

“Not the time nor the place, Watson!” She grasped his arm and began to drag him towards the carriages. “Come on!”

They lunge for the nearest carriage and cram themselves inside. Lily let out a sigh of relief after John slammed the door closed behind them. “That was—”

“Fancy seeing you here, Evans, Watson.”

They turn to see James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew (the last two looking disgruntled as they were squashed against the other side of the carriage) staring at them. Lily let out a quiet groan.

“Potter,” she spat out.

John, who got along with the four rather well as he shared a dorm with them, greeted them far more cheerfully. “Good to see you all again.”

“Likewise, John,” Sirius said, grinning at him. “Had a good summer?”

“Not too bad. You?”

“Bloody awful. If it wasn’t for this lot, I’d have offed myself.”

“Come on, don’t exaggerate.” John raised an eyebrow but Sirius didn’t look like he was joking. Much.

“Had a nice summer, Evans?” James asked, a cocky grin already fixed in place.

But Lily shot him a look that could’ve frozen the rain to hail and didn’t reply. “How was your summer, John?” she asked instead.

John would’ve given 50 Galleons not to be in that carriage at the moment. Lily Evans and James Potter were famous for their extremely hostile relationship and John had made a point of not getting involved in any way ever since their third argument. Looks like his current record of a year and four months was just broken. “Er, not too bad. Went abroad for a bit, though, and Harry’s met a new girl, Clara, and she’s been over for tea several times. Mum likes her so that’s a good thing.”

“I’m glad Harry’s found someone,” Lily said with genuine kindness.

“Yeah. They really seem to like each other. What about you? Petunia treating you well?”

“As well as ever.” He only just caught the gloomy tone. “Tuney’s head of her class at school and she’s been rubbing it in my face all summer along with all the usual stuff.”

John knew what Lily meant by ‘usual stuff’. “Well she can’t be better than you,” he said encouragingly. “She may be top of her class, but you’re top of our year. And no one else’s as brilliant as you are here in Hogwarts.”

“Except maybe Mycroft Holmes,” Sirius cut in with a tone of disgust. “You know what I heard over the summer? His younger brother, Sherlock, will be starting this year.”

“I’ll bet you anything the little tosser will be in Slytherin as well,” James said viciously. “Just like his snot-nosed brother.”

“You can’t know that,” Remus said in a placating voice, ever the mediator among his friends. “Who knows, maybe he’ll be different like you, Sirius.”

But the boy let out a snort. “And my grandmother’s a hippogriff. Trust me on this, Remus. If there ever was a pureblood family more attuned to Slytherin than the Blacks or the Malfoys, it’s the Holmeses.”

“But that’s typecasting,” Lily protested. “This Sherlock is going through the same thing you did when everyone thought you’d land in Slytherin and yet you defied all expectations and got Sorted to Gryffindor. Sherlock might also be an exception.”

“Trust me, Evans” Sirius said with an ugly look on his face. “I’ve met Sherlock once in the past when he was only 6, when he was a kid. I’m telling you; he’s not natural. With that attitude, he’s definitely a Slytherin.”

Lily rolled her eyes and looked away. It was obvious Sirius wasn’t going to listen to her. John, on the other hand, watched him. The furious glint in his cold gray eyes was definitely real. Whoever this Sherlock Holmes kid was, he had managed to infuriate Sirius Black to the point where he was letting unfounded prejudice blind him. John wondered what kind of person this boy was.

The carriage rolled to a stop ten minutes later and they all piled out. John apologized to Remus and Peter for cramming them in there, which they shook off with good grace. The rain hadn’t abated at all and they ran inside as soon as they jumped out of the carriage, shaking off excess water once safely ensconced in the Entrance Hall. Lily left for the Great Hall right afterwards, bidding a “see you later” to John as she walked past James, who watched her go out of the corner of his eye.

The five boys followed the rest of the students into the Hall, managing to get good seats near the front. Sirius and James immediately began crying for dinner to appear. John looked around for Greg Lestrade and was relieved when the older boy appeared a few minutes later, wiping the rain off his Prefects badge.

“Managed to get the first years sorted out,” he said, shaking the rest of the rainwater out of his hair. “They’ll be coming soon.” He waved to John and went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.

As the rest of the students began to settle down with the occasional stomach grumble and friendly greeting towards classmates and acquaintances, John noticed Professor Flitwick bring the Sorting Hat and stool to the front of the Hall. The Sorting was starting soon.

The doors burst open and in strode Professor McGonagall leading a bunch of skittish first years, about thirty at most. The first years were all peering nervously around at the enchanted ceiling, the floating candles, and the curious faces of the seated students with fear and astonishment. However, only one of them was glancing about him with a look of almost disdain on his face. It was the boy John had knocked over in Hogsmeade Station.

Sirius leaned in, his eyes fixed on the boy. His face was twisted with contempt. “That’s him: Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes was a small gangly boy with delicate but sharp features. His cheekbones were set high, his nose straight, and his jaw was already starting to be clearly defined. No doubt he will be very handsome in the future. His hair lay limp and flat, plastered to his head by the rain, but John could tell it would be a mop of ink-black curls once it dried. His eyes, still as icy as before but now a pale blue-gray under the candlelight, flickered around, drinking everything in with a calculating look that was certainly not typical of an 11 year old boy.

“I can see what you mean by unnatural,” Remus murmured, eyeing Holmes as well. “The look in his eyes…”

“You can definitely see the Slytherin in him,” Peter said fervently.

But John thought they were being unfair. Holmes certainly was radiating a distasteful arrogance about him that was characteristic of several purebloods like Lucius Malfoy or Evan Rosier, but there was an inquisitiveness and clarity to Holmes’s gaze that made John feel he would be better fit in Ravenclaw.

“I’m betting Ravenclaw for this one,” he said to the four boys next to him.

“Ten Sickles says he’s Sorted into Slytherin,” James said, always eager for a bet.

“Done.”

As they watched, a seam in the Sorting Hat seemed to split open as the patchy thing came to life and started to sing its customary song.

John only half-listened as his eye roamed over the rest of the first years, wondering which of them would be put into Gryffindor. So far, none of them seemed to fit into the whole “brave and courageous” thing except for Holmes, who continued to look unfazed while the other children were entranced by the Hat, wonder and terror on their faces. But John had a good feeling Holmes wasn’t going to be Sorted into Gryffindor.

When the song was done, Professor McGonagall brandished a piece of parchment and began calling out names.

“Abernathy, Beatrice!”

A short blonde girl shuffled to the stool and the Hat was placed on her head.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Atterberry, Victor!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

John and the rest of his House clapped as Victor Atterberry collapsed, trembling, next to Remus.

“Carson, Cecily!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

And on it went. The list moved by rather quickly, and it was almost time for the H-surnames to be sorted. John watched Sherlock, who still seemed unperturbed as he waited for his turn. In fact, his chin was lifted and his hands were tucked into his pockets, indicating he was completely relaxed. The sight was so unusual and he was so preoccupied with staring at the boy that John almost missed it when Professor McGonagall called his name.

“Holmes, Sherlock!”

There was a buzz of conversation after the name was called. This was it. The second child of the Holmes family, finally come to Hogwarts. Several eyes flitted to the Slytherin table, where Mycroft Holmes was shrewdly eyeing his younger brother.

Holmes sat on the stool and the Hat was placed on his head. It slipped forward ‘til it covered those cool eyes, but the boy pushed it back up, a mildly irritated look on his face. There was another buzz. Nobody had ever touched the Hat before during a Sorting besides having it placed on their head. Nobody had ever dared.

The Hat needed only twenty seconds to make its decision.

“RAVENCLAW!”

James groaned and Sirius seemed stunned as he watched Holmes lope over to the applauding Ravenclaws. “How did you know?” James asked John, fishing his money out of his robes.

“Lucky guess,” John said, pocketing the money. He couldn’t see the younger Holmes from where he was sitting, but he looked across the room towards the Slytherin table. Mycroft Holmes wasn’t even looking at the Ravenclaws. Instead, his gaze was focused on the Hat, which had just Sorted a brunette girl named Molly Hooper to Hufflepuff.

The Sorting finished soon afterwards, with “Ullman, Terrence” sorted to Ravenclaw and Dumbledore stood, beaming at them all.

“Welcome, welcome to Hogwarts!” he cried. “There are a few announcements I would like to make before we dig into our excellent Welcoming Feast. First of all, our caretaker Mr. Argus Filch would like me to remind you of Hogwarts’s ban on more than a few magical items, the full list of which would be found in his office. Secondly, the Forbidden Forest is, as its name implies, forbidden. I strongly advise you not to enter it, at risk of your own mortal peril. Thirdly, I would like to remind you that only third years and above are allowed to enter the village of Hogsmeade with a permission slip signed by a parent or guardian. I expect they will have been handed in to your Heads of Houses no later than tomorrow evening. Saving the fourth and the best for last, I would like you all to give a round of applause to Professor Herbert, who will be joining us for a second year of teaching the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. I daresay the jinx on the position might have finally lifted!”

Professor Herbert, a well-liked former Auror, smiled as enthusiastic applause swept through the Great Hall.

“Finally, I can hear the sounds of the insatiable beast, Hunger, snarling within your stomachs. The time now is not to talk, but to eat and thus stave off this monster. Tuck in!”

The golden platters suddenly filled with food and John wasted no time digging in, piling his plate with chicken and spare ribs and a baked potato. Pumpkin juice was poured into his goblet and he drank deeply to quench his thirst. For a while, he preferred to listen rather than talk as James and Sirius discussed with the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, Solomon Gaines, about practices.

“I’m trying to book the field as soon as possible,” Gaines was saying around a mouthful of steak and kidney pie. “But I know you guys will be wanting to adjust to your new schedules first.”

“I only signed up for Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes as extra classes,” James said dismissively. “I’ll be fine.” Sirius nodded, having opted for the same.

“What about you, John?” Solomon turned to John. “What classes did you sign on for?”

“Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures,” John said. “I don’t think I’ll have much use for the subjects in the future, though.”

“Still trying to be a mediwizard, then?”

“Yeah.”

Solomon nodded and looked him over. “You’ve been keeping in shape. That’s good. When I finally figure out when the first practice is, I’ll need you and Sirius to hit some Bludgers at each other to see if you two still got it down.”

“Of course we have,” Sirius said, looking slightly affronted. “John and I are unstoppable.”

“I’ll have to get used to flying again,” John admitted. “I haven’t been on a broom all summer.”

“No worries, John,” James said carelessly. “We’ll just pop down to the pitch during lunch tomorrow and practice a little.”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Dessert was served soon afterwards and John helped himself to ice cream and fudge, feeling sleepier as his full stomach lulled him into a state of peace. He glanced, again, at the Ravenclaw table and this time saw Sherlock Holmes sitting next to a pretty brunette who was chatting with her friend and who seemed to be studiously ignoring the first year. In fact, nobody seemed to be willing to interact with the boy and the expression on his face wasn’t one of disappointment or sadness or even resignation. It was one of disregard, like he didn’t care that no one wanted to talk to him.

He was obviously bored though, or distracted. A slight glaze and distance to his bright eyes revealed that. His hands were also placed in an odd prayer-like position before him with the tips of his fingers brushing the underside of his chin. Was he saying Grace? But no, his plate was clean as ever, as if he hadn’t eaten at all. And if he _was_ saying Grace, it’s a terribly long prayer: dinner was almost over.

If he didn’t eat anything, then he’ll starve. John reached for a couple of tarts and wrapped them up in a napkin. He remembered the angry glare that was directed at him at the train station. Maybe Holmes would be more agreeable to accepting his apology if he had some sweets first.

The food vanished and Dumbledore stood to bid them goodnight. As one, the students stood to leave and John could hear the Prefects calling for the first years.

The sudden rise caused Holmes’s slight form to disappear amongst the crowds and John thought he’d lost him. He ducked around the table, keeping his eyes fixed on where he last saw Holmes.

“Hey, John! Where’re you going?” Peter was calling after him.

“I’ll be right up!” He called back as he dashed for the Ravenclaw table.

But by the time he got there, Holmes was gone.

“Is something wrong?” Sarah Sawyer, a fellow third year and the brunette who was sitting next to Holmes earlier, asked kindly.

“Er, yeah. I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes.”

She blinked at him with surprise. “Sherlock Holmes? What do you want him for?”

“Accidentally knocked him over at the train station a while ago. Thought I’d bribe him with treats so he’d forgive me.” He held up the little bundle of tarts.

Sarah laughed. “Anyone would’ve thought you’re a Hufflepuff rather than a Gryffindor; you’re so nice and caring.” She pointed towards the doors. “Holmes is gone; popped up like a weasel out of his seat and disappeared like the devil was after him. Probably was too.” She discreetly pointed towards Mycroft Holmes, who was quietly talking to a young woman next to him while twirling his signature umbrella in his hands.

“What do you mean by that?” John asked.

“Don’t you know? Everyone knows Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes are on terrible terms with each other. Heard there was a sort of sibling rivalry that’s been ongoing for _years_.” Sarah looked at the bundle of tarts and managed to filch one before John could get a firmer grasp on them.

“Oi,” he said with a half-hearted glare. “D’you know when I can talk to him then?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t know much about any of the Holmes brothers, to be honest. Most of what I heard was from the grapevine.” She made as if to steal another tart, but John held it out of her reach. “Fine, be that way. You better get on to bed, though, before you get caught after hours.” Sarah waved goodbye and began to walk away.

John looked at the remaining three tarts in the napkin and sighed before walking after the last of the students leaving the Great Hall. He followed two Gryffindor seventh years up the stairs and through the portrait of the Fat Lady. Almost nobody had stuck around to chat and the common room was close to empty. John walked up the stairs to his dorm and opened the door.

Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter have already made themselves comfortable by sprawling on their beds or finishing the last of their unpacking. Remus looked up as John came in. “Where were you?” he asked. “You disappeared after the Feast.”

“I wanted to talk to someone,” he said evasively, putting the tarts down on his nightstand.

“Are those treacle tarts?” Peter asked from the other side of the room.

“Yeah. You want them?”

“Sure.”

John knotted the napkin before tossing it at Peter, who fumbled to catch it. He pulled his pajamas from the trunk and drew the curtains around his bed before changing out of his robes.

“Who were you looking for earlier, John?” James asked from somewhere to his left.

John contemplated telling the truth, wondering how Sirius would react. “Sherlock Holmes,” he finally said, deciding a lie would be more trouble than it’s worth.

“Why were you looking for _him_?” Sirius snarled.

John pulled the curtains back so he can look at the other boy. “I knocked him over in Hogsmeade Station earlier tonight and thought I’d bring him some sweets to apologize, since he didn’t seem to want to accept it earlier. But he left before I could reach him. Sarah Sawyer said he probably didn’t want to talk to his brother; said something about sibling rivalry.”

“Oh yeah, Mycroft and Sherlock loathe each other,” Sirius said with a grim sort of glee. “Dunno why though, but it’d be a nice piece of gossip if someone found out the reason, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Remus said idly. For some reason, he was looking out the window. “I don’t care much for gossip.”

“Come on, Remus. People would _kill_ for even a little bit of dirt on the Holmes brothers.”

“Go look for it on your own.”

“Fine. James?”

“I don’t really care.” The bespectacled boy suddenly turned to John. “Hey, John, what did you do to get Evans to like you so much? I can’t say five words without her wanting to rip my head off.”

John shrugged. “No idea. We just started talking about Charms one day and we’ve been good friends ever since. That’s all.”

James looked disappointed. “That’s it? But she knows about your sister and you know about hers. And what’s the ‘usual stuff’?”

“You should probably ask her that yourself.”

“Can’t. Like I said, she’ll rip my head off.”

“Then maybe that’s a sign that means you should stop being so nosy.” John gave him a pointed look as he disappeared into the bathroom amidst Sirius, Remus, and Peter’s chuckles. “No, really,” he said, poking his head around the door. “Lily probably just isn’t comfortable with the amount of attention you keep giving her. Maybe you should back off a little and give her some space.”

“But I can’t!” James whined, throwing himself down. “She’s all I can think of!”

“Think of something else.”

“It’s not that easy!”

John rolled his eyes as he stuck his toothbrush in his mouth. It was hard to tell who the bigger drama queen was sometimes: James Potter or Sirius Black. He finished brushing his teeth and climbed into bed, ready for sleep. “Goodnight,” he mumbled, letting his eyes droop shut.

“’Night, John.”

“Goodnight.”

“Sleep well.”

“’Night.”

* * *

Sherlock Holmes managed to evade John for a full two weeks, which was a feat in itself, as the first year was taking almost all the classes John was.

The Ravenclaw boy was actually supposed to be with his other first year classmates, but rumor had it that Holmes had been bumped up to third year because he was already so advanced. There was no evidence to support it, but Holmes had certainly been able to keep up with the curriculum with no trouble.

“He even sleeps in the third years’ dorm,” Sarah Sawyer said to John one day in Care of Magical Creatures. “Everyone avoids him, though, even though a lot of people would like to pick his brain; he’s so gifted and smart. But I heard that Soo Lin Yao, the Ravenclaw Prefect, tried to talk to him once and he sent her away in tears.”

“What did he say?” John asked, alarmed.

“No one knows and Soo Lin won’t say. But nobody wants to be around him now.”

John nodded, thinking of whenever he saw Holmes in classes. Every person who sat next to him or worked with him always looked highly disconcerted and whenever there were spare seats, everyone always made sure not to sit next to him. John occasionally wondered if Holmes was lonely, but the boy never gave any inclination he was.

After Care of Magical Creatures, Sarah left for Transfiguration while John was left with a free period. He spent it sitting by the lake, ruminating over Holmes and the past two weeks. The first day of classes, he had been shocked to discover that Holmes was in his Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Defense, and Astronomy classes. (The last one, though, Holmes had disappeared from after the first day and no one knows why.)

During dinner after the third day of term, John had attempted to approach Holmes again, but he had been missing. In fact, the boy rarely showed up during mealtimes and every time he did, it was with a resentful look on his face as he picked at his food. John also saw, what nobody else did, that whenever Holmes showed up for meals, Mycroft Holmes also looked a little smugger than usual.

Attempts to corner the boy had been failures as well, for Holmes always managed to slip away once class was dismissed or whenever he and John were in the same vicinity. If John didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Holmes was trying to avoid him. But there was a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that said that that might actually be the case.

Whatever it is though, John wasn’t letting up until he finally got the chance to properly apologize to him.

He stood up and dusted off the back of his robes, thinking he’ll go down to the kitchens for some sandwiches before Potions. James and Remus had shown him where they were in their second year and ever since then, John had always visited several times a week for snacks. He even had a few friends among the house elves.

But on his way there, he suddenly heard voices coming from one of the abandoned classrooms on the first floor. Though muffled, he could tell the voices were far from friendly. Then there was the sound of something hitting a hard surface and a crash.

Concerned, John threw open the door.

Sally Donovan, a 4th year Slytherin, her boyfriend Philip Anderson from Hufflepuff, and two others John didn’t know were standing around a crumpled body sprawled in front of a toppled desk. Pale blue-gray eyes and curly hair confirmed that it was Sherlock Holmes who they had shoved into the desk.

“Oi, pick on someone your own size!” John said furiously. He hated bullies. They reminded him of how the Muggles back home tormented Harry for liking girls before John found out and pummeled them to a pulp for it.

Anderson pulled out his wand and pointed it at John. “Stay out of this, Watson, and don’t you dare breathe a word about what you saw here or—”

“Or what, you’ll bully me too?” John said, his voice rich with scorn. “Go on, then. Beat me up. I’m not scared of you.” The hard, blazing look in his eyes revealed he was telling the truth.

Anderson faltered, cowed a little by the rage in John’s face and voice. But then Donovan shot a hex at John, which he just barely managed to dodge. “Or we’ll make sure your life will be a living hell,” she said coldly.

John snorted. “You forget, I share a dorm with James Potter and Sirius Black,” he said, reminding them of the trouble the two got into on a daily basis. “Go on, give me your worst.” He balled his fists. If it came to a wizard’s duel, he would lose. But if it came to a physical fight, he was more than sure he’d be able to thrash them.

The bullies now looked a little nervous, seeing as they weren’t able to intimidate him into submission. Donovan looked at Anderson, then turned to Holmes and sneered, “Good thing you got your boyfriend to rescue you, freak.”

Holmes, who had picked himself up from the floor, looked coldly back at her and opened his mouth as if to say something, but had she already looked away and was stalking towards John.

“We’re watching you, Watson,” she said, sticking her face close to his. “You’re going to regret this.”

“You’re going to regret it more if you put another hand on him,” he retorted.

Donovan looked hard at him, then turned to leave. “Come on,” she said to Anderson and her cronies.

Anderson was the last to go. He glared at John as he passed, who glared back until the 5th year looked away. He turned to Holmes to ask if he was alright when a sudden heavy blow struck him in the head. Anderson had hit him while his back was turned.

Furious, John whirled around and flung himself at Anderson, fist flying at his face. It caught Anderson’s jaw and his head snapped to the side. Anderson threw a punch, but it was poorly aimed and weak and John caught it, twisted behind him, and tripped him.

They sunk to the floor, John’s knee on his back while he bent Anderson’s arm in an awkward angle. Anderson yelled and flailed and John got off him. “Coward,” he spat at the cringing boy. “Ganging up on a younger boy half your size and then attacking me from behind. I don’t know how someone like you ever got into Hufflepuff.” He picked him up by the scruff of his robes and dragged him outside, where he found Donovan and the other two staring, shocked. “I’ll make sure to report this,” he hissed. “And I’ll have a word with Greg about you, Anderson.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the classroom, slamming the door behind him. He let out a long breath, feeling his hand throb from punching Anderson and examined it. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t bruise much. John felt a rush of pride sweep through him as he recalled the terrified look on the bullies’ faces as he dragged Anderson out of the room. They weren’t going to bother Holmes again, he was sure.

“Why did you interfere?”

Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him. Though substantially shorter, there was a power in his glaring eyes that suddenly made John feel very small.

He frowned at the choice of words. “Interfere?”

“I had the situation under control,” Holmes snapped. “I would’ve taken care them just fine if you hadn’t come barging in.”

John’s jaw dropped. “ _You?_ You would’ve been pulverized if I hadn’t been there, you ungrateful prat.”

Holmes looked affronted. “I had the situation under control,” he insisted.

John snorted. “Right. Four bullies bigger, heavier, and stronger than you were about to beat you up and you ‘had it under control’.”

“I wasn’t going to fight them and I don’t have to. I wouldn’t resort to such plebian acts. I would have destroyed them another way.” There was a new chilling quality to his voice. “I can take one good look at them and deduce their life’s story in under two minutes. I could’ve stripped them raw, left all their secrets out in the open. I could ruin them without even lifting a finger.” There was a raw, burning light in the depths of those bright eyes. “I could have brought them so low, they never would’ve been able to crawl out of the pit I put them in.”

John stared at him as ice shot down his spine. Holmes meant what he said, every word of it, he could tell. At that moment, he could see what Sirius had meant that the boy wasn’t ‘natural’. “That was incredibly Slytherin of you,” he eventually said.

Holmes scrunched his nose, looking disgusted, and the fevered light died. “No. No, that was not. Mycroft is in Slytherin and I’m _not_ like my brother. I’m nothing like him.”

“Your brother doesn’t have to do with anything. I’m just saying what you said was… ruthless. It was something like what a Slytherin would say.”

He sniffed. “I’m not in Slytherin.”

“You probably have a bit of it in you, then. Sirius Black did say your family was more Slytherin than most.”

“I would say the same thing about the Blacks.”

“Don’t let Sirius catch you saying that or he’ll murder you.”

“I’m not afraid of him. I’ve watched him with James Potter and the other two and he’s even more of an idiot now than when he was 9. Typical of Gryffindors, from what I’ve seen.” Holmes suddenly eyed John, looking him up and down. “Except for you. I would’ve thought you were a Hufflepuff.”

“People always say that,” John said, shrugging helplessly. “I get along with everyone and I’m nice and patient and trust-worthy.”

“But what you did just now was very Gryffindor-ish. We all have qualities of the different houses within us, some more prevalent than others, which is what the Sorting Hat determines. You’re right that I have some Slytherin qualities, several of which are quite dominant, but the Hat sorted me into Ravenclaw for no doubt my intelligence and my eagerness to learn. You, on the other hand, could have easily gone to Hufflepuff but was Sorted to Gryffindor, more likely because of your aversion to injustice and your bravery and chivalry. I suspect it might have caused some confusion as your peers got to know you, but it doesn’t matter what they think. What matters really is where you feel you belong. If your gut instinct tells you you’re a Gryffindor, then Gryffindor it is.”

John blinked with surprise at the eloquence of his speech. “That was very comprehensive.”

“Of course. I hate to leave loose ends. Now, why did you interfere?

“You’re still not over that?”

Holmes scowled. “I did not need your help.”

“Yes you did.”

“I’m not a helpless child.”

“I never said you were.”

“You presumed I was which could possibly be why you were trying to follow me around for the past two weeks, although now I know that you weren’t trying to harass me, even though your attempts to approach me were bothersome.” His eyes narrowed. “Why were you trying to talk to me? I could try to deduce it, but as you’re here, I might as well ask.”

“Deduce?”

Holmes made a noise of impatience. “Please don’t tell me you don’t know what it means.”

“I know what it means,” John snapped. “It’s just that earlier you said you could deduce Donovan and Anderson’s life story in under two minutes. That’s not possible, unless you know how to read minds or something.”

“I don’t know Legilimency and I have no desire to, not when I can deduce your father’s military career in the Muggle’s Army, your position as Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, your vacation abroad, and your close relationship with your brother.”

There was a beat of silence.

“How could you _possibly_ know all of that?”

Holmes smirked. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you were following me.”

“I just wanted to apologize for knocking you over at the train station at the beginning of term,” John said. “I tried, but you just brushed me off so I thought it was right that I made a second attempt. Now tell me how you knew all of that.”

But Holmes was looking bemused. “You followed me around for two weeks just to apologize?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

He pursed his lips and was quiet for a few seconds. “Your father’s military career,” he said eventually. “Your fight with Anderson proved that you are well trained in hand-to-hand combat, which is much more common with Muggles as Aurors rely on their wands more than physical prowess. I doubt you paid for classes, as your robes are secondhand and thus proves you came from a poor family, so someone you know trained you— the ready way you recovered and retaliated is indicative of rigorous training and familiarization to surprise attacks, so someone you live with taught you. Could be your brother or an uncle or even a cousin, but I doubt it. Whoever it is, and I am quite certain it’s your father, they would have been professionally trained, so he must have been in the Muggle’s Army. A teacher might have taught your father, but because he _taught you himself_ that means he’s had experience with combat and enough of it to be able to prepare you so well at such a young age. Your position as Beater is easy to see: callouses on your hand show you grip something cylindrical on a regular basis— not your wand, it’s too thin and the callouses are on the wrong places— and your arm muscles indicate you deal with something heavy or with a lot of force, both of which almost equate to the same thing so, Beater it is. You can’t be Chaser, because your fingertips don’t have the bruising or callouses of one and your build is wrong for a Seeker. I would’ve thought Keeper, but I know for a fact that the Gryffindor Keeper position is currently manned by your Quidditch Captain.

“Your relationship with your brother is slightly harder to read. Your vehemence against Donovan and Anderson, both bullies, say you harbor a strong dislike of them. Could be that you had experience defending others— most likely your brother; familial ties are far more revealing of a person— from bullies. Then there’s your watch. It’s cheap, hardly worth more than a few Muggle pounds, but it is well taken care of so it’s worth some sentimental value to you, so it’s a gift. Your parents could have bought it for you, but adults tend to spend a little more money to show their care and would’ve bought you something more durable and fancy. This watch, being so inexpensive, must have been paid for with a child’s pocket money so it must be your brother, if he’s around your age, who bought it for you. Your vacation abroad is shown by your tan. England this summer wasn’t sunny enough for sunbathing so you must have gone somewhere else for a decent length of time and, as you’re too young for business trips and your parents wouldn’t have brought you on one anyway, it must be vacation.”

Holmes bit his lip once he stopped talking, searching John’s blank face for any clue of what the older boy was thinking. The silence stretched between them, seeming to go on for hours.

“That… was amazing.”

Holmes paused. “You really think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; quite extraordinary.” John looked down at himself with wide eyes, still a little disbelieving that Holmes managed to catch all of that just by his watch, his hands, and only a glimpse of his fighting skills.

“That’s not what people usually say.” Holmes still seemed to be in a slight state of shock.

“What do people usually say?”

A wry smile crossed his lips. “’Piss off’.”

John laughed. “I suppose people would say that. So with Donovan and Anderson, you would’ve said worse things about them?”

“They deserve it,” Holmes said shortly.

John didn’t disagree. “So you know all about me, but I don’t know a thing about you.”

The boy shrugged. “There’s not much to know about me.”

“No, I think there’s a lot to know.” John grinned. “You’re quite the enigma, Holmes.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that. That’s what Mycroft makes people call him. Call me Sherlock, please.”

“Call me John.” He holds out his hand and Sherlock shakes it. “And you _are_ an enigma. I hear a lot of stuff about you from loads of people. Sarah Sawyer says you’re brilliant, but you made Soo Lin Yao cry when she tried to talk to you. Sirius says you’re not ‘natural’, as in you’re not like normal people. You skip meals, sometimes for days on end, and when you do show up, you’re usually reluctant to eat. People, er, well they make an effort to avoid you in class and you skived off Astronomy after the first day. Hey!” He glared at Sherlock. “Why aren’t you in Transfiguration right now?”

Sherlock looked bored. “We’re turning hedgehogs into pincushions in Transfiguration. I could’ve done that when I was eight so I saw no reason to attend class.”

“McGonagall will have your hide for this.”

But Sherlock didn’t look concerned. “You’ve been watching me quite a bit,” he commented, raising an eyebrow.

“I told you, I was trying to apologize to you so I poked around a bit to see how I could approach you.”

“Hm. Well, I suspect you heard the rumor that Mycroft and I are not on good terms with each other? Soo Lin Yao approached me about it and as it’s not a subject I wish to discuss with strangers, I deduced that she is involved with a criminal organization and her boyfriend is cheating on her with one of her friends.”

John’s eyebrows rose. Sherlock could be quite cruel for an 11 year old.

“I met Sirius Black when I was 6 and deduced him as well, touching upon his family issues. I suspect he continues to hold a grudge against me because of that. I skip meals because eating is boring and digesting reduces brain activity so I tend to avoid it. The same goes for sleep.”

“You need rest and nutrition for healthy brain activity,” John said in a disapproving voice.

“Not you too,” Sherlock complained. “My brother has been quite bothersome about this. I would like you to refrain from doing the same.”

“I’m not letting this go, Sherlock. You better be at dinner tonight or I’ll hunt you down and shove roast chicken down your throat.”

Sherlock made a face. “Fine,” he muttered. “And the house elves aren’t even making roast chicken tonight anyway.” John ignored the last comment.

“Good. So, why don’t people talk to you?”

“Family name, I suppose. Wizards do treat pureblood families with more care as we have a substantial position in Wizarding society and many of us are involved with the Ministry. I also suspect Mycroft’s reputation prevents people from approaching me. You and Soo Lin Yao are the only ones who dared to. Also, people are naturally intimidated when faced with someone far more intelligent than themselves. You are, again, the exception.”

“Must be the brave and daring streak in me,” John said, grinning. “Why did you skive Astronomy? And why are you taking classes with third years?”

“Professor Dumbledore elevated me to third year because of my intellect. I already knew all the first and second year material, partly because I read all Mycroft’s textbooks while he was at school when I was a child and mostly because I am smart.” He said it with no small amount of cockiness, but John made no comment on it because it’s true, Sherlock _was_ smarter than almost everyone he knew. His intellect might actually be on par with Dumbledore’s in a few years. “As for Astronomy… I don’t care about it.”

“It’s a required class, though. You need it.”

“Need it? I don’t _need_ it! What does it matter that we are on a piece of rock floating in space revolving around the Sun? The knowledge doesn’t benefit me at all. So I deleted the information, spoke to Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore about my views, and I was allowed to remove myself from the class.”

“ _Dumbledore_ allowed you to take yourself out of the class?! And what do you mean by ‘delete the information’?”

“My mind palace,” Sherlock said, tapping his head. “It’s a memory technique also known as the method of loci that allows me to quickly and effectively categorize and recall information in my brain through use of spatial memory. It’s child’s play to go into my mind palace and delete the Solar System from my memory.”

“That’s amazing,” John said, awe in his voice. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

“It’s very useful,” Sherlock said with a touch of pride. “For example, I created a room in my mind palace ten minutes ago using this classroom as its basis and filled it with information I’ve gathered about you.”

John had a feeling this was quite uncommon for the boy and felt touched by it. “Thank you.”

Sherlock looked slightly confused. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

Outside, the bell suddenly rang and John instinctively turned his head towards the sound. “I’ve got Potions,” he said. “With your House. I suppose you’re coming to class this time?”

“Might as well. We’re doing the Confusing Concoction today. I suppose I’ll put a few drops in Anderson’s pumpkin juice tonight, just to see how much more of a fool he’ll be able to make of himself.”

John laughed as he opened the door and led the way to the dungeons. “By the way, there’s something you got wrong in your deductions.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice had hardened until it was sharper than a bed of nails. “What was it?”

“The brother you mentioned is actually my older sister, Harriet.” John laughed again as Sherlock froze completely, as if he had been hit by a Full Body-Bind Curse. “I honestly don’t know why you thought I had a brother anyway, since nothing you mentioned in your explanation indicated with certainty the gender of my sibling.”

“A _sister_ ,” Sherlock hissed, looking furious. “I thought you had a brother because girls generally tend to give other kinds of gifts, usually something of no practical value that tended to be sentimental. _Sister!_ There’s always something.”

John grinned as he led the two of them down the staircases to the dungeons. A group of people had already congregated in front of the door of their classroom, among which are Lily Evans and her friends. Her eyebrows rose in a pointed question as she saw him and Sherlock approaching. _Did he accept your apology?_

John gave her a thumbs up and she grinned before turning back to her friend Marlene McKinnon.

“What was that about?” Sherlock asked as they hung back from the crowd.

“She wanted to know if you accept my apology. I said yes.” John looked swiftly at him. “If that’s alright. You never said if you did accept it.”

“I accept your apology. You’re quite persistent, if you must know.”

John grinned. “Gryffindor stubbornness.”

“Hufflepuff patience,” Sherlock countered. “If you were Gryffindor you would’ve snapped a long time ago and done something drastic like sent up fireworks during breakfast that spelled out ‘Sherlock Holmes, please forgive me’. That being said, if you had any common sense at all, you would’ve gone to the Owlery and sent me a message; it would have saved so much time and energy.”

John’s jaw dropped as he realized Sherlock was right and the younger boy smirked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said and John looked at him. “No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.”

“To you, but that’s only because nobody else’s mind works the same as yours.”

“I don’t see how it’s difficult. One only needs to open their eyes and _observe._ ”

“Not everyone has the time nor the patience to do that, Sherlock. People usually prefer to do other things.”

“Really? What do ordinary people do then?”

“Er, among the people I know, they just talk about Quidditch and schoolwork. The older boys talk about girls.”

Sherlock let out a loud scoff. “Dull.”

John had to grin at that. “Yeah, pretty dull.”

At that moment, Professor Slughorn, the enormous Potions professor and Head of Slytherin House, came puffing down the corridor. “Sorry I’m late! Everyone please go in.”

“He was at the kitchens, eating crystallized pineapple,” Sherlock said to John, his voice contemptuous. “You can tell by the traces of sugar on his fingers and moustache.”

“If he continues eating so much, he’ll get diabetes or something,” John said. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

“He was severely disappointed I wasn’t Sorted to Slytherin. Slughorn ‘collects’ people, you see. That’s how he makes connections so he can pull a few strings here and there to ensure he gets what he wants. He usually collects people of importance or those he favors and gets them to join his ‘Slug Club’. Mycroft is in it and he’s doing almost the exact same thing as Slughorn is, although far more inconspicuously.”

“But what does Slughorn want with you?”

“Slughorn is a collector and purebloods are notoriously powerful amongst the Wizarding World. He already has Mycroft in his House, don’t you think he would’ve been a lot more satisfied if he also got me in there?”

“He’ll be like the cat that got the cream.”

Sherlock nods. “He already sent me a couple invitations to the Slug Club, but I burned them. Nothing Slughorn offers interests me.”

The other students have already filed into the dungeon by the time the late bell rings and Sherlock walks in after them. John watches as he chooses a seat in the corner, away from the others. Nobody gives him a second look.

Sarah Sawyer sees John and waves him over, pointing to the empty seat next to her. “John, over here!”

John was about to join her like he usually did, but something stopped him. He looked again at Sherlock, sitting all alone in his corner, and his chest panged to see the little first year— or third year, as he skipped several years— by himself and his feet automatically carried him to Sherlock, who looked startled as he sat down next to him.

“What? Aren’t I allowed to sit next to you?” John asked.

“Everyone’s staring,” Sherlock said dryly after a long beat of shocked silence. He was right: every single person in the room, even Professor Slughorn, was staring at the two of them. Sirius, James, and Sarah looked especially startled, but Lily was starting to smile.

“Let them stare,” John decided, looking away. “I’m allowed to sit with my friend, aren’t I?”

Sherlock twitched, as if what John said startled him. “I’m… your friend?”

“Of course.”

“But I didn’t even do anything.”

“You don’t have to,” John said, frowning a little in puzzlement. “You don’t have to do something for someone to be friends with them. You just have to like them and trust them.”

“You like me?”

The three words, posed as an almost innocent question, struck John like a Bludger to the head. For the first time, he began to have a sense of how lonely Sherlock must have been before and after he arrived at Hogwarts. His mind formed an image of a young boy with black hair and big blue-gray eyes, reading textbooks all alone in his room, no one to play with and no one who he could share his brilliant mind and talent of deduction with, who people probably hated because of his uncanny ability and social ineptitude, and his heart ached for him.

“Yeah,” John said quietly. “Yeah, I like you. And I trust you too, if that’s what you were going to ask next.”

Sherlock was silent for a worryingly long time. “No one ever liked me,” he whispered. “Not Mummy, not Father, and certainly not Mycroft.”

“Well _I_ like you,” John said, almost fiercely now although keeping his voice low to prevent eavesdroppers from hearing him. “And you’re my friend, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good.” John abruptly ruffled his mop of curls and Sherlock shoved his hand away, scowling. “Do you want me to be your friend?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation.

“Then we’re friends.” John turned to Slughorn, who had gotten over the shock of seeing Sherlock and John sitting together and had begun teaching.

But John did not miss the tiny but entirely delighted smile that spread over Sherlock’s face once he thought John wasn’t looking.

* * *

 

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes’s friendship became the main topic of gossip for the next three weeks. After the day John had rescued Sherlock (the news of the attack had spread like wildfire and Donovan, Anderson, and the other two with them had gotten detention for weeks) the two had been nigh on inseparable. They could be seen in class practicing spells and oftentimes bickering over a bubbling cauldron, bent over scrolls of parchment or dusty old tomes in the library, coaxing and bullying the younger boy to eat a few bites of food in the Great Hall, or even trying to teach one to fly while the other vehemently refused until John bodily picked Sherlock up and planted him on the broom in front of him and flew around the pitch until the boy stopped yelling expletives in a rare display of panic and lack of self-control. Professor McGonagall had docked thirty points from Sherlock for excessive swearing after they had landed and John had been given detention for manhandling another student.

Most didn’t understand how John even put up with him, for Sherlock’s reputation of owning a completely callous and arrogant personality had reached even the furthest corners of the castle. Some thought he was touched in the head (“I think he took one too many Bludgers to the head, if you know what I mean.”) others thought it was very kind of him (“It’s the Hufflepuff in him. I told you he was Sorted into the wrong House.”) and still others thought John was using Sherlock for his own personal gain (“Holmes is a pureblood and Watson’s a Muggleborn. He’s probably trying to get into Holmes’s good graces so he can get a good job in the future or something.”)

Sherlock, with his standoffish attitude, was harder to approach. John, however, was bombarded on all sides by people wanting to know everything, from whether John was pretending to be Sherlock’s friend so the Ravenclaw could do his homework for him to whether he and Sherlock were secretly dating. The last question, posed by an especially nosy 7th year girl by the name of Kitty Riley, had almost killed John, who choked on a lima bean during dinner.

“Oi, lay off of them,” Sirius Black snarled while Remus thumped John hard on the back. “Go find someone else to bother.”

Sirius and the other Gryffindor third year boys had soon accepted John and Sherlock’s friendship. Granted, James only did so because Lily had been quite supportive of them and Sirius accepted it because Sherlock (forced into it by John) had apologized for the insensitive deduction he had made during their childhood. Remus was as supportive as Lily, and Peter generally went along with whatever the group did.

Sherlock now sat with John at the Gryffindor table during mealtimes, even though it was generally frowned upon, as sitting with one’s own House was symbolic of tradition and House-loyalty. But Sherlock, not giving a whit about either, simply sat next to John during lunch one day and ignored everyone else. Instead, he spent the time prattling on about a Potions experiment he wanted to try until John stuffed a chicken wing into his mouth.

As John wheezed after coughing up his bean, Sherlock eyed Kitty Riley, who had scuttled back to the Slytherin table. “I wonder if I should mention that—”

“No,” John said, his voice raspy. “They’re just curious, that’s all. Give it a few more weeks; things will die down.”

“But John it’s so obvious her boyfriend— what’s his name, Edmund Skeeter— is only interested in sleeping with her. I actually feel I’m doing her a favor by telling her. On second thought, I _am_ doing her a favor if I tell her, so I won’t say anything.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got everything covered,” James said, also eyeing Kitty Riley. “Stupid bint’s going to get what she deserves.”

John rolled his eyes. “Remus, stop them.”

“I can’t,” Remus said in a resigned voice. “Once they’ve got their mind set, there’s hardly anything I can do.”

“Based on what prank you intend to do,” Sherlock said, hands pressed together under his chin and his eyes closed, “you will break anything from an estimated 136 to 642 school rules. My suggestion is that you don’t involve any permanent plumbing damage or anything involving a winged pig.”

“Winged pi— Hold on. _Sherlock, you’re not helping._ ”

“Of course not. I’d much rather prefer to sit back and enjoy the show than get my hands dirty.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Thanks, mate,” Sirius said cheerfully. “Knew those brains were good for something.”

John threw him a warning look, but Sherlock seemed unperturbed.

“We have 642 school rules?” Peter asked, dazed by the number.

“971, in fact, but most have been forgotten or disregarded. If they weren’t, however, you would have been facing six days’ worth of detention for leaving your tie loosened.”

Peter nervously tightened it. Sherlock let out a soft noise of derision. “Don’t be ridiculous, Pettigrew. The rule has been disregarded since 1793.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He tugged it loose again.

“I would have thought it was obvious, based on my wording. ‘If’ and ‘would have’ being the most telling.”

“Sherlock, you haven’t touched your food all evening,” John said, eyeing Sherlock’s empty plate.

“I don’t feel like eating,” the boy said simply.

“You have to eat. How else are you going to grow up?”

“I am perfectly content to stay the same height as I am now,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“You will eat.”

“No.”

John let out a sigh of exasperation. “If you don’t eat, I’ll make Greg Lestrade give you detention.” The threat has worked before, as the Hufflepuff prefect had also befriended Sherlock and worried about his health after realizing the boy did not eat as much as he should, but it had resulted in Sherlock actively ignoring John for two days.

But Sherlock did not budge. “Don’t take me for a child, John. I won’t be coerced by empty threats.”

“Sherlock. _Eat._ ”

“You already made me eat breakfast, aren’t you satisfied enough?”

“No. I won’t watch you waste away to nothing in front of me.” John put lamb chops and a few dinner rolls on his plate. “Eat or this time I _will_ shove it down your throat.”

The boy grudgingly picked up a roll and began nibbling at it. “I don’t see why you always have to threaten me,” he complained. “I do listen to you, you know.”

John snorted. “No you don’t. If you do, you’ll drink more milk, have a healthy diet and regular sleep pattern, and stop trying to blow up my cauldron for one of your crazy experiments.”

“I’m not _trying_ to destroy your cauldron, John. The explosions just… happen.”

“Right. Next time, use your own cauldron.”

“But I like yours. The potions always turn out better in them for some reason.”

“That is a lie. You’re probably just too lazy to get yours out of your trunk.”

“I don’t lie.”

“That, right there, was a lie. You do lie. A lot. And the longer you spend time talking, the less you’re eating. Eat.”

Sherlock glared at him mulishly and continued to nibble at his food. Once done, he pushed away his plate with an air of finality. “Done. Satisfied?”

“No.” But he grinned to let Sherlock know he was joking.

Dessert materialized on the platters and John looked pointedly at Sherlock, who let out a loud sigh and helped himself to a bit of custard.

Dinner finished soon afterwards and Dumbledore cheerfully sent them off to bed. James and Sirius led their little group out of the Great Hall, talking loudly about the recent Quidditch match in New Zealand. Sherlock lingered at the back, unwilling as ever to go to his dorm. He never said why, but John knew as well as the others that it was because he was alone and friendless there where he wasn’t anywhere else in the castle.

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws ascended the staircase together, on their way to their separate towers. When it was time to part, John waved goodbye to Sherlock and threatened to do bodily harm to him if the boy didn’t show up for breakfast the next morning. Sherlock rolled his eyes, dismissing it like always, and left with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Peter, John, Remus, Sirius, and James continued on their way to Gryffindor Tower, feeling full and soft after the meal and eager for rest. “ _Rache,_ ” James said to the Fat Lady in a flawless German accent.

“Beware,” the Fat Lady warned before the portrait door swept open to reveal the comfortable common room. Students were settling down at tables and armchairs to finish up homework or hang out.

James, Sirius, and Peter had Ancient Runes homework and Remus and John decided to keep them company by playing a game of wizard’s chess. If Sherlock was with them, the game would have been decided in about five moves even with the combined efforts of John, Remus, Sirius, and James. John grinned, picturing the smug smile his friend would wear after one such match.

Remus ordered his bishop to capture John’s knight. To counter it, John took his rook with his queen and smirked. “Check.”

“Not quite.” Remus’s pawn took the queen and John grimaced at his mistake. His pieces shouted abuse and the king shook his fists at him.

“John Watson?” a fifth year girl John didn’t recognize was standing next to him.

“Yes?”

“Professor McGonagall’s looking for you,” the fifth year said. “Not sure what it’s about, but you should hurry.”

John’s friends gave him concerned looks. “Thanks,” John said, fighting down the worry and apprehension. The fifth year nodded and walked away.

“You want us to come with you?” James asked, already getting up.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” John said, trying to be cheerful about this. “I’ll see you all later, yeah?”

He hurried out of the portrait hole and quickly went towards the Transfiguration corridor. Curfew will be in effect soon and he had no desire to bump into Filch or his blasted cat after meeting Professor McGonagall. Anxiety pricked at him. What did the Head of Gryffindor House want with him?

“John Watson.” Again, someone called his name. But this time it wasn’t posed as a question. It was lower and more aggressive: a demand for attention.

John stiffened with surprise when two Slytherins came out of the shadows. Both were sixth years and seemed tall and imposing in the darkness. The shorter of the two— a wavy-haired girl who looked familiar although he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before— stepped forward into the light of the torches. She was holding a slim black book and smiled enticingly as she approached.

“Who are you?” he asked, a little rudely.

“Er… Anthea.” The girl fiddled with her book, trailing slim fingers over the leather cover. There was a vague expression of amusement on her face.

“That’s not your real name is it?”

“No.” She straightens. “Please come with me, John. There’s someone who would like to speak with you.”

“Why should I?”

Anthea smiles again and John felt something sharp poke his back. He cursed. He’d been so preoccupied with Anthea he forgot about the sixth year boy.

“Come with me,” Anthea says and she turns and strides down the corridor.

John wonders if he should just try to make a break for it, but the persistent pressure of the wandtip at his back deterred that and he followed, hating his helplessness.

They wandered through the castle, taking twists and turns and going up and down staircases. They did not encounter any ghosts or prefects, nor did they come across Peeves or Filch and Mrs. Norris. The paintings they passed by all held sleeping occupants. No one would know the three of them had been there.

Finally, they stopped in front of a nondescript door somewhere on the third floor corridor. Anthea knocked six times, then let herself in. The sixth year boy shoved John in after her, then closed the door.

Moonlight streamed in through the window, but it was weak and dull. The only other light came from a single candle sitting in an old-fashioned brass candle holder resting upon a desk. A tall figure stood next to the candle and the wavering light shone upon a familiar face and manicured hands folded over the handle of an umbrella.

Mycroft Holmes watched as John warily approached him. “Have a seat, John,” he says in a pleasant voice as he gestures to the chair sitting in the middle of the room.

John ignores the chair and instead walks past it until he stands only a few paces from Holmes. “This is about Sherlock, isn’t it?”

Holmes smiled thinly, but there was no warmth nor humor in it. “Very astute, John. I see you’re already picking up my brother’s powers of observation and deduction.”

He scowls at the sarcasm. “Why couldn’t you have just asked to meet me like a normal person instead of more or less kidnapping me?” For now he knew that McGonagall hadn’t wanted to meet him at all.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.”

John raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. If Holmes was taking such precaution to avoid Sherlock, it must be because he wanted something from John. “What do you want from me?”

Holmes looked straight into John’s eyes. “What do you want with Sherlock?”

He frowned. Something didn’t feel right here. The question, spoken by anyone else, would be taken as concern for a younger sibling. But Mycroft Holmes was not known for being a caring older brother; quite the opposite actually, given the rumors of his and Sherlock’s feud. John did not know the brothers well enough to confirm or deny these rumors, but he supposed there was a reason why Holmes had taken the time to draw John out and get him alone to interrogate him about his younger brother. It may be that Holmes did care for Sherlock after all.

He decided to answer honestly. “Nothing. Sherlock’s my friend. I don’t want anything from him.”

Holmes’s gaze sharpened. “Sherlock doesn’t have friends,” he said.

“It’s about time he does,” John snapped back, feeling his ire rise.

Holmes stared coldly down at him, then looked ponderously at his umbrella. “I must confess, your loyalty to my brother is rather unexpected.”

“He’s been alone for most of his life, hasn’t he? He _needs_ a friend.”

“He did have a dog when he was a child, but that is irrelevant.” Holmes fixed him with a stern glare. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”

John met his look head-on. “Yes.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few long moments. “Remarkable,” Holmes said abruptly in a soft voice. “Sherlock has always managed to push away anyone who wishes to associate with him. However, he has yet to deter you.”

“It’s not just me, you know. There’s also James Potter and Sirius Black—”

“Both of whom have been introduced to my brother through you. Their friendship was also grudging, as I recall, and was only initiated due to one Lily Evans and you.”

“Remus—”

“Lupin and Pettigrew would not have approached Sherlock on their own terms,” Holmes said dismissively. “You were the only one who would have voluntarily extended the hand of friendship and you have.”

John nodded reluctantly, knowing what Holmes was saying was right. “What’s it to you, though?”

“Nothing much,” Holmes said silkily.

John snorted and rolled his eyes. “Right. Cut the bullshit, will you? It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m not playing any games.”

“Very well.” Holmes straightened. “I understand you are Muggle-born and, because of age-old prejudices, would have to work twice as hard to ensure you have a stable career after Hogwarts. I am willing to ease your way, as well as give you a monthly stipend until your graduation… for a price.”

“What do you want?” John asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Information.” Holmes smiled thinly. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

John gaped at him, not sure if he’s more outraged or shocked. “You want me to _spy_ on Sherlock? Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

John snorted again. “What a load of shite. Well, that’s very nice of you.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “But no.”

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not someone who can be bought or bribed into doing something I don’t want to do.” He whirled around, stalking towards the door which Anthea was standing next to, engrossed in her little leather-bound book. But before he could reach it, Holmes called out to him.

“Protecting and befriending Sherlock Holmes is not a wise decision, John Watson. You should know what is good for you and what isn’t, before it comes back around to bite you in the arse, to put it rather indelicately.”

John’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t turn back around. “Who I befriend and who Sherlock befriends is none of your bloody business. And you’re a bloody terrible brother for trying to bugger this up when it’s _clear_ he needs people he can trust around him, least of all you. So do us both a favor and _piss off_.”

With that parting shot, he wrenched open the door and left.

The sixth year boy standing outside did not stop John as he stormed away without even bothering to think about where he was going. His mind was racing and he was unbelievably angry with the posh, pompous pureblood. Later, he might think it wasn’t such a smart idea to turn his back on such a powerful enemy, but he didn’t care. He hated the way Holmes spoke to him, like he could be enticed into spying on Sherlock for money and a set job in the future. Like Sherlock wasn’t good enough to be his friend or he wasn’t good enough to be Sherlock’s. Like he had the right to control Sherlock’s life. Screw that. Sherlock was his own person; he could make his own decisions.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice the slender figure standing in the shadow of an alcove until it stepped forward.

John yelped, then swore as he recognized the curls glinting under the light of the torches. “Sherlock. What are you doing here?”

“Wondering why my brother was bothering you.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, then looked away to a point over his shoulder. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“How— Yeah, he did. That, and a promise of a position in whatever job I wanted to do in the future.”

“Did you take it?”

John stared. He thought Sherlock would’ve known him better by now. “Of course not.”

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of John’s chest. Of course. Only Sherlock. “Your brother is a prat.”

“What did he say?”

“He said being friends with you is going to bite me in the bum one day and a lot of shite about you not having friends. Did you really have a dog when you were younger?”

Sherlock looked angry, but it was the misery underneath it that made John’s heart clench. “Sherlock?”

He shook his head. “Mycroft always wants to control me and limit who I interact with.” He turns big blue eyes onto John. “Are you going to leave?”

“Leave? Why would I do that?”

Sherlock shrugged and John knew it was about Mycroft Holmes.

“I told you already,” John said patiently. “You’re my friend and if your prick of a brother doesn’t understand that, then I’ll sodding make him.”

Sherlock smirked and John could clearly see that he was relieved. “That will be an interesting sight to see.”

They laughed a little and stood in silence, basking in the warmth of their friendship. And John realizes, then, that Sherlock had, somehow, become his closest friend in only a few weeks. Not even James, Sirius, Remus, or Peter had managed this; the four always getting into some scrape or another while John held back from joining them. It wasn’t to say the Gryffindor third years weren’t close friends— far from it, actually— but with Sherlock, it felt slightly different. The trust and companionship between them felt closer, better even.

Perhaps this is what having a best friend was.

John grinned and Sherlock smiles back, a little confused by the delight in his expression but pleased nonetheless. He opens his mouth, presumably to ask about it, like he always did, when a very distinct sound came from somewhere around their ankles.

_Meow._

Horrified, John looked down to see raggedy Mrs. Norris glaring balefully up at him with her bulging yellow eyes. Without further ado, she whisked away to fetch the Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch. In seconds, they could hear the man’s shuffling footsteps and wheezing breath coming around the corner.

Sherlock met John’s eyes and the unsaid question passed between them _._ John nodded.

_Ready when you are._

Without further ado, they turned and dashed away as quickly and as quietly as they could. They pelted up staircases and veered around corners until they finally slumped against the wall in a corridor not far from the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

John burst into giggles as he panted, chest heaving for breath as he bent over. “Okay. That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock grins. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten into trouble like that before, not with James and Sirius as your friends.”

“No, not really. Mostly I stayed out of the way with Remus and Peter and tried to stop the chaos from spreading. Failed miserably though.”

They fall into silence, staring at a painting of a trio of witches in gaudy purple and gold robes snoring as they sprawled over the little sofas they were seated on. John turned to look at Sherlock, who seemed to have gotten his breath back. “How did you find me when I was being interrogated by your brother?”

A flicker of unease passed over Sherlock’s face, but it passed. He shifted and stood straighter. “I knew Mycroft was going to come after you sooner or later, so I put a Tracking Charm on you the day we became friends. He took longer than expected, though. He’s getting slow.”

John gawked at him. “You put a Tracking Charm on me _three weeks ago_?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I had to know—”

“Instead of doing that, you should’ve just given me a heads-up.” John crossed his arms, glaring. Sherlock looked slightly disconcerted, but John sighed, letting the indignation fade. It was obvious Sherlock still did not know how to cooperate with people and this independence was hard to let go of. “Just let me know about these things next time,” he said wearily.

There was a pause, then Sherlock nodded once. John rubbed his eyes, feeling tired after the day’s events. “You should get back to your dorm. Curfew’s already in place and we have class tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Sherlock muttered haughtily. “Sleeping is boring.”

John lightly shoved him, exasperation clear on his face. “If you won’t sleep, at least try to rest. Your dormmates complain enough.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, but nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, John.”

John grinned and turned to go. Before he disappeared around the corner, however, Sherlock spoke up, calling out to him much like how Mycroft Holmes did before.

“John, I just wanted—” He cut himself off and John looked back to see Sherlock looking frustrated. “It won’t happen again,” he eventually said.

And that was the closest to an apology John was ever going to get. He smiled reassuringly, however. “I believe you.”

Sherlock looked relieved, but hid it soon afterwards. “Good.”

“I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.” He smirked at Sherlock’s disgruntled expression. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

John turned around and walked to the Fat Lady, who quirked an eyebrow at him. “Rather late, aren’t you?”

“Sorry about that,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “ _Rache_.”

She swung open and he walked in, heading straight towards the cluster of armchairs by the fire, where James and the others were still sitting. Remus looked up as John approached. “John, you’re back. Is everything alright with McGonagall?” The others stopped what they were doing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t much. Just had a few things to take care of, that’s all.” John sat back down in his chair. Remus eyed him speculatively, but John only grinned. “What did I miss?”


End file.
